7:22 a.m. 30 degrees, wind SE 6 mph. Sky: a thick mantle of gray clouds, sunrise slips by scarcely noticed. Permanent streams: water level high and loud, fragile and decorative ice formations coat overhanging stems and twigs. Wherever there's a splash, here and there, glistening projections from the shoreline, tiny visors of ice. Wetlands: chickadee in the alders, creeper and nuthatch in the pines. A busybody red squirrel delivers a soliloquy (dogs ignore, I pay attention). Marsh still and silent as a tomb. No sign of the owl I flushed last Saturday morning en route to the town's transfer station—off pine limb and over the road and marsh, more float than fly. Globe of a head, soft feathers. A split-second dream. Our eyes met for a nanosecond. Pond: a replay of yesterday, ice panes close otter portholes, thinnest of windows into a hidden world . . . too thin for me to peer into.
Enthralled by a raven, a black bird beneath the gray sky flies north, trailing his voice behind him. Two crows palaver, harsh and loud. Two crossbills several times, back and forth, engage in a less spirited discussion. More schmoozing than crowing.
An early morning Valium, a muffled heartbeat to sunrise, subtlest of gestures, barely tangible . . . soft and faint like owl down.